Page 28 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

T he Japanese Global Prix is in four days, and I arrived in Japan late last night.

The drive from Nagoya to the track in Suzuka takes just under an hour, most of it through quiet highways flanked by rice paddies and tidy factory towns.

I’m behind the wheel of a black Lexus sedan—a loaner arranged through a sponsor, clean and quiet, with just enough torque to be familiar.

Most drivers stay in Nagoya as Suzuka’s too industrial, too crowded, and sparse when it comes to luxury hotels where wealthy racing teams insist we stay.

Even though it’s a bit of a drive, it gives me time to think and I’m glad to focus my brain on racing today.

It will be my second time racing this historical circuit and it’s one of my favorites because there’s something sacred about racing in Japan.

It’s not just the fans—though they’re some of the most passionate and respectful in the world—it’s the sense that motorsport here is treated like an art form.

Japan’s racing history is intertwined with its industrial heart.

Honda, Toyota and Nissan didn’t just build road cars, they built dynasties in motorsport.

On paper, it looks like a gentle bend. In reality, it’s one of the most dangerous corners in racing.

The speed and g-forces slam you into the side of the cockpit at nearly five times your body weight. There’s no margin for error. One wobble, one missed line, and you’re in the wall.

And yet, just thinking about it lights me up. My fingers itch for the wheel, and my whole body buzzes like it’s already strapped into the cockpit. This is the high we chase. The rush. That split second where precision meets danger—and you find out if you’ve got the guts to hold your line.

Man, I wish I could get in the car right now because I’m pumped and I’m ready, but alas…

free practice isn’t for another two days.

Still, lots to be done, including the track walk with Felix today, then sim work and set up talks with Tariq.

Media stuff today and tomorrow—press, sponsor interviews, maybe some fan meet-and-greets in the paddock.

Long days, but just busywork, and thankfully, that’s enough to keep my thoughts off Lara.

That’s been easier said than done. She’s back in Torquay, and yeah—I hate it.

We haven’t really talked since we both flew halfway around the world yesterday.

Just a quick text from her saying she made it home and that Lance wasn’t there yet.

I, in turn, texted her when I landed safely in Japan last night.

It was short and awkward and it’s bugging me that our lifelong friendship has been reduced to this.

It should’ve eased something in me that Lance wasn’t there, but it didn’t. It’s got me on edge because I don’t know where his head’s at.

I’m also nursing a bruised ego. Like Lara chose him—or at least the past—over us. And maybe she’s right. Maybe this is the last thread she needs to cut to gain closure, but it still sits in my chest like a loose bolt I can’t tighten and that’s not something I can afford to give credence to.

I’ve got too much to do today to keep pulling on that thread. If I want to be sharp by Sunday, I’ve got to get my head straight. No distractions. No emotion. Just the track.

I take the exit toward the Suzuka Circuit and soon massive grandstands rise like cliffs in the distance.

The entrance is flanked by banners in Japanese script and the buzz of early fan arrivals.

Even midweek, the energy here is building.

I pull into the VIP entrance, nodding at security, who wave me through after a glance at my credentials.

Barricades keep fans back, but throngs of them point their phone cameras at me as I drive slowly.

I give them a wave, a smile. They’re the core of racing… the actual heartbeat.

The paddock is alive with efficient motion—technicians wheeling equipment, team staff running schedules, and early media teams setting up for broadcast. I park in the Matterhorn-designated slot and step out, hearing my name called by eager fans.

I move over to the barricades, manned by security, and sign autographs and pose for pictures.

Felix and Tariq are waiting for me near the garage entrance. Gunner is leaning over his car, checking out a modification an engineer is explaining. Felix hands me a folded printout of the resurfacing notes. “Turn8 has been re-layered. Grip might be patchy on corner exit.”

“Got it,” I say, scanning the document. “Any tire chatter from the other teams yet?”

Tariq smirks. “Coral Reef’s pretending they’re going full softs. They won’t. They’ll hedge on mediums and undercut like always.”

Tire strategy is what makes or breaks most races and why our strategists are indispensable. “Got it, mate.”

“We’ll be doing the track walk in about an hour,” he says, and I offer a wave as I walk off.

I head straight to Union Jack’s garage where I find Carlos, leaning against one of the workbenches with a half-eaten melon bun in his hand.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, nodding at the food. I love those things… it’s like a sugar cookie and a cloud had a baby.

He jerks his head over his shoulder at a table in the back with an open box of pastries. “Help yourself.”

I take two and the first bite is delicious as well as horribly bad for me. I wonder if Lara can make these because she’s great at baking and…

Fuck… stop thinking about her for just five minutes, mate.

I search for coffee but don’t see any. I could use another ten cups, but I head back to Carlos who’s watching me, a smirk playing at his lips.

“How are you not jet-lagged?” I ask, wondering how he looks so chipper after the long travel of yesterday.

“I thrive on lack of sleep,” he says, biting into his bun. “But I’m not sure you do. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” I drawl with an eye roll, but he’s not wrong… sleep has been eluding me. I just didn’t realize it had manifested in my physical appearance.

He glances at me sidelong. “Let me guess. Lara?”

I say nothing. Promise myself I can go five minutes without thinking about her. I take another bite of the melon bun and watch the activity out in the paddock.

Carlos doesn’t let it go though. “When’s she coming?”

A growl of frustration hovers low in my throat and I turn to look at him, pasting a pleasant smile on my face. “She’s not. She’s back in Torquay.”

He responds with a rapid flurry of surprised blinks. “Why’s she in Torquay?”

Taking a deep breath, I let it out and give him as succinct an answer as I can.

“Because Lance showed up in Zurich, caught us kissing and we got into it. He called Lara a name, I attacked and we fought.” Carlos whistles through his teeth but I press on without even taking a breath.

“Lara felt it was necessary to follow him back to Torquay and settle things face-to-face. I didn’t think that was necessary and I’m a little pissed she went.

That’s it in a nutshell and honestly, I don’t want to talk about it.

I’d like some blessed time to think about something other than Lara. ”

Carlos stares at me, his brown eyes appraising. “That was quite a mouthful.” I expect follow-up questions and even though I said I don’t want to talk about it I will, because he’s a good friend who always offers solid advice.

Instead, he says, “Come on. Let’s go walk around the paddock and try to get under the other drivers’ skins.”

I bust out laughing, thinking that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time. “Let’s do it.”

We walk the length of the lined garages, weaving in and out of team members and spectators with passes.

Everything we need to race—cars, tools, spare parts, even the espresso machine—gets flown in on chartered 747 freighters.

It’s an operation that runs like clockwork, coordinated months in advance by an entire logistics division of each racing team.

Once it all lands, local transporters—rented rigs painted with team branding—bring the cargo to the track and line it all up in the paddock like we never left Europe.

Crew members in matching gear rush between garages, lugging tires, adjusting equipment and shouting instructions over the hum of generators.

There’s the sharp tang of fuel in the air, the metallic clink of tools, the low rumble of an engine firing for testing.

We pass drivers giving interviews, sponsors shaking hands, and cameras trying to catch anything that might go viral before the weekend’s over.

It’s the kind of crazy that I’ve come to love and I wish Lara were here walking with me.

Fuck… don’t think about her.

Up ahead is a large gaggle of reporters in front of the Titans Racing’s hospitality unit and for the first time, a buzz that doesn’t center on Nash Sinclair.

Through the crowd I get a glimpse of long golden hair cascading in waves and there she is.

Francesca Accardi.

The Italian driver who just came into FI is tall, which makes her easy to see over the reporters gathered around her.

She stands with the kind of posture that makes heads turn before you even see her face.

Her hair is long and wavy, a rich caramel-blond that catches the light, and her skin has a Mediterranean golden warmth to it.

Her eyes are light brown, almost amber in the right light, framed by thick dark lashes and a gaze that’s more calculating than coy.

And her mouth—full, sculpted, the kind you’d expect to see on a runway ad for Italian couture.

She’s stunning in a way that’s impossible to ignore—striking, poised, almost unreal—but there’s nothing delicate about her.

She carries herself like someone who’s earned her place here, not been handed it.